Mrs. Warren found. No city bred person is suited to a country life, any more than active commercial habits fit a man for literary lei

sure.

The money that had been sunk in the country, with other losses (not very heavy) which Mr. Warren met with about that time, joined to certain offers made to him by commercial friends on his return to the city, gave him a pretext and opening for talking of business again.

No sooner did his mind begin to return to the old track than cheerfulness and animation were restored, and he returned happy and excited, like a charger to the field of battle.

It was not without some mortification, that his wife saw him fall back with such eagerness to the

old routine; but she wisely forebore to remonstrate. She could only hope now to turn her experience to the profit of her son; to educate him with liberal tastes as well as active habits, was her present dream. In short, she had some vision of a Roscoe merchant, but we fear the " times are out of joint" for such men, or at least their wives must not look for the luxuries and fortunes that less gifted beings accumulate.

Society has placed her gifts on the right hand, and on the left. Few can snatch at both-and yet, where is the woman endowed with heart or mind who can hesitate as to the choice? "Wisdom and knowledge make the difference between man and man, and that between man and beast is hardly greater."

WHEN people see a man's portrait engraved and published, if they know nothing about him three prominent questions are apt to suggest themselves -not exactly in the proper or natural order of time, but in an otherwise natural order, indicated by the general tenor of man's relations to society. These questions are-What did this man, to make a knowledge of his personal appearance desirable? Where and when was he born?-Where and when did he die? Briefly to answer these inquiries-Friedrich Schiller wrote divers books which have wrought certain effects, more or less permanent, on the minds of thousands numberless. He was born at Marbach, a small town of Wurtemberg, in Germany, on the 10th of November, 1759. He died at Weimar, also in Germany, on the 9th of May, 1805.

Of his personal biography-that is, of his life and doings, apart from the doings of his intellect, written and published-there is not much to tell. He was not born to a station which, independent of himself, his own character and works, should make him a personage of importance in this queer world, where the accident of birth makes some very ordinary men and women cut a very extra. ordinary figure under the titles of King, Queen, Emperor, Empress and the like. His father was simply a retired army surgeon, who, when slaughter and plunder, under the name of war, happened to be out of fashion for a time, made out a not very magnificent living in the capacity of gardener to the Duke of Wurtemberg; his mother was of still more humble station, being the daughter of a baker-a good woman, of kindly domestic virtues, with some considerable taste for poetry and literature in general. The boy's tastes and aspirations

were fixed upon a clerical life, and his early studies were preparatory, therefore, to a future education for the Church; but when he was some fourteen years old the Duke took it into his head to establish a sort of law school, mainly for the sons of his military officers, and farther to make young Schiller one of the scholars; an arrangement very unwelcome to both the youngster and his parents, but not to be disputed in a part of the world where the aforesaid accident of birth gives one man the right, or at least the power, to control the actions of thousands or millions. The kind of spiritual meat and drink provided for the scholars at this establishment is thus described by one of Schiller's biographers:

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The Stuttgard system of education seems to have been formed on the principle, not of cherishing and correcting nature, but of rooting it out, and supplying its place with something better. The process of teaching and living was conducted with the stiff formality of mility drilling; every thing went on by statute and ordinance; there was no scope for the exercise of free-will, no allowance for the varieties of original structure. scholar might possess what instincts or capacities he pleased; the "regulations of the school" took no account of this; he must fit himself into the common mould, which, like the old giant's bed, stood there, appointed by superior authority, to be filled alike by the great and the little. The same strict and narrow course of reading and composition was marked out for each beforehand, and it was by stealth if he read or wrote any thing besides. Their domestic economy was regulated in the same spirit as their preceptorial; it consisted of the same sedulous exclusion of all that could border on pleasure, or give any exercise to choice. The pupils were kept apart from the conversation or sight of any person but the teachers; none ever got beyond the precincts of despotism to

snatch even a fearful joy; their very amusements proceeded by the word of command."

After six years of discomfort, not to say misery, such as we may suppose this kind of life to have engendered, Schiller's avowed repugnance to the legal profession was graciously indulged by the Duke so far as to permit the study to be exchanged for that of medicine, a medical school having now been established by that dignitary; and though the young man liked the healing art not much better than the wrangling, the substitution was still so far a relief that he accepted it with considerable eagerness. But it was written in the book of fate, or in the constitution of his own mind, that neither law nor medicine should be the field of his works and his renown; the spirit of poetry was alive within him, and as he entered upon manhood it asserted its supremacy.

Hampered and harassed by the rigid exactions of the school, he yet found time for the production of various attempts, chiefly dramatic, some of which were published in the magazines of the day; but all of a sudden the literary world of Europe was startled and the destiny of Schiller fixed by the appearance of The Robbers, a play which, even in very indifferent translations, still holds possession of the English stage, and where it is presented in the original is still accounted one of the modern dramatic master-pieces. It was commenced when Schiller was but nineteen years of age; and evidently took its character in part from the irritating and irksome condition in which he existed. Carlyle says of it:

"It is the production of a strong untutored spirit, consumed by an activity for which there is no outlet, indignant at the barriers which restrain it, and grappling darkly with the phantoms to which its own energy, thus painfully imprisoned, gives being. A rude simplicity, combined with a gloomy and overpowering force, are its chief characteristics; they remind us of the defective cultivation, as well as of the fervid and harassed feelings of its author. Above all, the latter quality is visible: the tragic interest of the Robbers is deep throughout-so deep, that fequently it borders upon horror. A grim inexpiable Fate is made the ruling principle; it envelopes and overshadows the whole; and under its lowering influence, the fiercest efforts of human will appear but like flashes that illuminate the wild scene with a brief and terrible splendor, and are lost forever in the darkness. The unsearchable abysses of man's destiny are laid open before us, black, and profound, and appalling, as they seem to the young mind when it first attempts to explore them; the obstacles that thwart our faculties and wishes, the deceitfulness of hope, the nothingness of existence, are sketched in the sable colors so natural to the enthusiast when he first ventures upon life, and compares the world that is without him, to the anticipations that were within."

But though the publication of this drama-it was not presented on the stage immediately-brought the young writer before the eyes of all Germany and indeed of all Europe, its immediate effect on his temporal condition was disastrous. He had completed his medical studies, taken his diploma and obtained an appointment as regimental surgeon, the duties of which he performed with ability and diligence. His illustrious patron, however, the Duke aforesaid, was scandalized by the freedom of sentiment and opinion exhibited in The Robbers, and his Highness was pleased to express his disapprobation in very energetic terms. Schiller was commanded to restrict his pen to medical subjects, or at least to beware of writing any more poetry without submitting it to the Duke's inspection. Royal disfavor of course brought down upon the head of the unlucky author abundance of contumely and annoyance from the satellites of royalty, in and out of office; and for some time poor Schiller had a very uncomfortable time of it. The upshot was that, in 1782, being then 22 years old and upward, he threw up his commission, abandoned Stuttgard, where the Duke resided, and went forth into the world, "empty," as he said, "in purse and hope," not knowing what would become of him, and caring only to escape the thraldom which he found so intolerable.

This was the turning point of his destiny. Changing his name for fear of difficulty from the Duke, he was fortunate enough to encounter, in Franconia, a wealthy lady who had read and admired his productions and whose sons had been his fellow students at Stuttgard; she invited him to her house, which henceforth was for some time his comfortable home, and here he took up the pursuit of literature as a profession, which was soon to claim in him one of its most illustrious devotees and followers.

Before a year had elapsed he had written two tragedies, which were published in 1783 and soon after produced upon the stage with universal approbation. And now it was apparent to the German world, the Duke of Wurtemberg included, that Friedrich Schiller was somebody. In September 1783 he removed to Manheim, in the dominions of the Elector Palatine, where he received the respectable and moderately lucrative appointment of poet to the theatre, and entered decidedly upon the vocation of what is called a "a man of letters."

Of materials for biography, properly speaking, the life of Schiller, beyond the point at which we have now arrived, furnishes but little The history of his mind is alone interesting, and that is to be sought in his numerous works, including his correspondence with most of the eminent German writers of his time. J. I.

In the wild tract of country, once a part of the borders of Champagne and Burgundy, is a deep and narrow valley. The traveller entering it at the western extremity might deem himself transported into the wild scenery of Switzerland, so rugged are the precipices which shut him in. Not entirely without dread he beholds their sides scantily garnished with trees, which gather nourishment upon terraces scarcely perceptible from below, or cling to the very surface of the grey rocks. At his feet a rapid stream chafes and roars, maddened by the barriers which confine its waters. It seems to have no outlet; for, at a little distance, a sharp crag seems to project across the gorge and to forbid all egress. Its appearance is, however, deceptive. The stream is yet farther compressed, and almost doubling on its course dashes foaming and seething into a basin, whence escaping, it wends more peacefully to the East. Upon the crag we have mentioned, and which commands the neighboring heights, once stood a far-famed castle. wall surrounded it, lofty and strong, upon the North and East, but of less height and solidity along the edge of the precipice. The nature of the ground had induced the architect to dispense with the precaution of a ditch, but the great gate was protected with more than ordinary care, and an inner wall extended across the exposed sides, defended like the outer one with towers and battlements. The wall overlooking the abyss formed one side of the court-yard, with a part of the second, and the enclosure was completed by the chapel and other buildings far less convenient than secure, and which, massive as they were, lost their importance beside the keep, towering proudly above them in defiance alike of the weapons of human warfare, and the less perceptible but surer touch of time.

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The prospect from the small and narrow window was gloomy in the extreme. A rugged country mocked the labors of the husbandman, while it presented nothing of grandeur to compensate the want of rural beauty. The only pleasant thing in the whole landscape was the esplanade, where a few sheep and cows grazed on the sparse herbage. Everything about the castle marked the residence of a powerful lord. The anvil resounded

with the blows of the ponderous hammer, warsteeds pawed restlessly in the stables, night and day sentinels paced the walls, knights held mimic tourneys, esquires perfected themselves in the exercises of chivalry, and with all the hurry of fancied importance, bustled about the plumed page and more sober-suited menial. The sides of the great hall were lined with trophies and implements of war and the chase. The antlers of an overgrown stag or the huge tusks of a boar brushed rudely against the jeweled helmet of some unfortunate compeer, while amid steel caps and shirts of mail, gloves and gauntlets, and all the various pieces of a warrior's harness were scattered the instruments of sylvan sports.

Drowsily had passed the cool spring day. A few men-at-arms lay rolled in their cloaks before the dying embers, players languidly disputed over their games, and the story-teller, infected with the prevailing listlessness himself, yawned in the middle of his tale. But the approach of evening restored the wonted activity. The long-winded romance was hastily concluded, fresh logs were piled upon the fire, the soldiers dissipated their sluggishness with deep draughts from the wineflagons, multitudes of cooks ran hither and thither in unprofitable haste, vast pasties baked, sheep boiled, and an ox roasted before the immense fire, while dishes of fish and small game were more carefully prepared.

The youngest son of the house sat in the most repelling of the many apartments. It was large and high, and the sunbeams which played around the deep masonry of the windows illuminated the interior successively, always leaving a portion of it in dense shadow. There was one point, however, which the rays twice in every bright day lighted into a ghastly hue. Around a pillar a little removed from the centre were blood stains, ingrained like hideous mosaics in the floor, and defied every attempt at erasure. Much was surmised respecting their origin, and the old butler nodding over his cups muttered fearful things to the trembling listeners.

The young man occupied this dreary chamber from necessity, not choice. It had been assigned him, and his pride forbade a remonstrance which

might seem to spring from cowardice. But it was very lonely. The sounds of business or mirth that came up from below mingled discordantly with the rush of waters, and, beside his own, no foot fell on the long, dark stairs which led to it, but that of Lawrence, his old and faithful servant. The bravest of his brethren would have shrunk from its dreaded door, but the circumstances which had embittered his childhood and youth had developed the finest traits of a character originally lofty, and, if he was not wholly free from the superstition of his time, he was, at least, far superior to those who would not acknowledge him as their equal.

He had passed the first twelve years of his life under the care of leeches, and when at length his health became confirmed, his mother's death left no one to combat or disprove the opinion of his father that mental imbecility had been induced by protracted illness. Grown rude in feeling by a long course of rapine, he refused his son the instructions proper to his rank, and turning him over to the society of grooms and valets, not only permitted, but encouraged his brothers to taunt him with the want of those accomplishments which he had been forbidden to acquire. He soon changed their scorn to hatred; for, having obtained permission to compete with them in their exercises, he vanquished them in turn, leaving them to ascribe to magic what was really the result of secret but severe practice. The count might then have turned to the neglected one but for malicious insinuations which perpetually reached his ear. Shut out thus from every source of knightly amusement, Eustace de Ribeaumont sought by the lore of the period and the tones of his harp to solace his weary hours. Armed with his sword, he roamed the country, passing the nights wherever a tree spread its branches or a cave promised protection from the chill air. A life of meditation does not always qualify one for a life of action, but Eustace thought to purpose. So thoroughly did he imbue himself with a conviction of the superiority of the mental over the physical; so carefully did he cherish a delicate sense of honor and a strict regard to justice; so rigidly practise the fortitude and patience, the courtesy and temperance for which his position furnished such abundant opportunities, that he had fitted himself to shine as a model of chivalry, ere he was enrolled in its ranks. The pale stripling of the nursery could not have been recognized. True, he was less robust in appearance than his brothers, but he would have greatly erred who should have judged his strength and endurance by the graceful outline of his form. The exercise and abstinence which had prevented roundness had made his limbs vigorous and elastic, while the Isun and wind and storms which had rescued his features from effeminacy made him indifferent to the accidents of time and place.

After a day of toil, the young man took his harp. In vain he essayed a lively measure, for a tone of profound sadness had been breathed over the strings, and they refused an echo to happy fancies. Twice he had made the attempt, when a triumphant peal of trumpets came from the North, and was answered by a welcoming blast of the warder's horn. "God will judge. Aye, God will judge," he murmured. "Injustice and cruelty and crime will not always prosper. Humbled and despised neither permitted rest in my father's halls nor allowed to leave them, yet the day will come, and I shall go out higher and purer for the ordeal." He looked from the window; already he could distinguish the glitter of helmets and the glancing of spear-heads, and, throwing aside his harp, he dashed down the winding stairs and was soon hidden from sight by the steep bank of the river.

With laughter and jest and shout came proudly forward the steel-clad troop. Their leader, the Count de Ribeaumont, had once stood high on the herald's rolls, but the lawless character of the age had seduced him into violence and rapine. He was followed by three sons. The two younger had nothing to give them place in the memory, but the observer involuntarily quailed before the sinister expression which lurked in the small grey eyes of the eldest, Bertrand. In the centre rode a girl of perhaps fifteen years of age, though the dazzlingly white complexion, brilliant black eyes, and lightly pencilled brows, seen occasionally from beneath the thick riding-hood, seemed to indicate more mature years. Behind were her maidens, surrounded like herself by men-at-arms. Menials followed with the spoils of the expedition, and a strong body of lancers brought up the rear. With eager curiosity the garrison poured out to learn the details of the foray and examine the booty. hundred voices mingled in Babel-like confusion, but before any two could understand each other, the frowning brow of their lord warned them to their tasks.

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He himself superintended the erection of a canopy at the upper end of the hall formerly used by his deceased countess. The drapery was of Venetian silk, the outside of crimson, spotted and bordered with gold, the lining of sea-green, deeply faced with ermine. Carpets lay on the floor, each smaller than the last, and so contrasted in color as to add not a little to the gorgeousness of the whole.

The summons to the table was quickly answered by men who had fought fasting, but the movement was checked by the count, who watched impatiently a side door as if expecting some one to enter. A minute only elapsed before it was opened, and, advancing, he led to her seat the lady who had returned with him.

Now that, divested of her riding attire, her whole face and figure were visible, no one could have failed to pronounce her very beautiful. The delicate blending of childhood and womanhood, in which sometimes the one, sometimes the other predominated, was irresistibly fascinating. The very repose of her countenance seemed but temporary, and when most entire indicated an immediate awakening. A quick glance, a just perceptible motion of the lip, assured the gazer that some thought was struggling for utterance; when allusion was made to subjects of more than ordinary interest, to themes of love and chivalry, she startled and enchanted with the glow of sudden inspiration.

No one questioned with regard to the absence of Eustace. His seat was reserved until Bertrand motioned to it his favorite page. A knight of herculean frame watched the boy with quickened breath until he was within three paces of it, when, bringing his huge hand upon the table with tremendous power, he shouted, "Beware! thy heart's blood pays the forfeit ! "

A fierce light glared in the eyes of Bertrand, and, seizing a glove, he hurled it at the head of the knight. It flew wide of the mark and fell clashing to the floor. The knight snatched it up, raised it as if to strike, then muttering, "No, no! not the heir of my host!" he threw it contemptuously aside and stalked from the hall. Unchallenged he passed through the side gate which had given egress to Eustace, and at a little distance he joined his favorite.

"Do not return," he said; " or, at least, join not the revellers. I shall never again cross yonder threshhold. Go thou also with me."

"And leave my father's castle like a thief, Sir Geoffrey? Leave it alone and in darkness like a sneaking hound? No, never! When I go it shall be as a son, at least, if not as an honored one."

"Mad boy, believe it not. Think you hatred will forget-revenge be hushed to silence? If it were possible yesterday, it is not to-day, for thy brother will brook no rivalry for thy father's highborn ward."

"We are alike there, Sir Geoffrey; and, see you, the sword easily settles that."

"Sometimes too easily. The sleeper parries not its stroke; the arm of the sick man is powerless to avert-and, hark ye, men say that one drop of the ruby liquid that the Lombard drops in the wine cup of his foe leaves but a mass of ashes where he lay down to slumber."

"And if I love her not?"

Love her not!" said the other, slowly and prophetically. "When did brave youth and fair maiden meet that they did not love? But could it be, it avails thee nothing. A pretext alone is wanting, and this will be the most specious of them all."

"Nevertheless, Sir Geoffrey, I will not go. No! not to stand to-morrow at the head of a thousand lances will I steal in silence and darkness from my father's halls."

"Then mark me, Eustace; mark my words and remember them when time shall have proved them true. Thou wilt go out thus, flying like the chased deer, without mail to protect or sword to avenge thee, and remember also, that Geoffrey de Chargny will receive the fugitive with more love and honor than if the earth trembled at the tread of his troop, and a banner floated over him prouder than was ever yet flung to the winds of France."

They grasped hands and parted.

The moment Bertrand saw the lady Agnes he resolved to wed her, and, though he in truth cared little for her consent, he affected great solicitude to please. He arrayed himself in superb garments, guerdoned richly the minstrels and story-tellers who amused her leisure, announced to her every intended expedition, and selecting the choicest curiosities from the spoil, presented them to her with all the high flown compliments of the time.

Cautiously observant, Agnes soon discovered that it would be dangerous as well as vain to reject his attentions. She permitted him, therefore, to assist her to her palfry, to hold her bridle rein, to hand her to her seat in the great hall, to stand by her side when she amused herself with the sports and exercises of the court-yard. But her manner, though to a certain extent gracious, was such as to forbid farther approach The gay badinage which formed almost the whole of her conversation with those to whom she was indifferent served to conceal ardent feelings and strong impulses, while it was sufficiently courteous for household intercourse. With far deeper interest she regarded Eustace. When with him, the brilliant light which seemed to play over rather than live within her eye passed, and it became soft almost to tenderness; her clear mirthful voice was low and full of feeling, her manner, usually careless, was timid and earnest, her attention, seldom accorded to another, was fixed upon his slightest word and most trifling action. Yet she saw in the thoughts which ever strayed to him, in the uneasiness and ennui she experienced in his absence, the joy she felt at his return, in her admiration of his powers, in her preference for all the objects of his choice, only bravery unacknowledged and virtue scorned.

In return, Eustace surrendered to her his whole heart with all its concentrated affections. Not for her rank or beauty; it would have been the same had she been an unknown, unlovely wanderer. Those mute, involuntary evidences of affection had